Clouded

She doesn't know anything for sure, is there a cure?

dust particles dance
without need of music.

on the mantel
are the forgotten flowers
in a plastic vase,

a forlorn shrine
floating in foul water,
whispering at you,

but we're not dead yet
(not dead yet)
not dead yet
(not yet)

the veils are slipping
one by one
by one by
one too many.

images cavort
behind your ice blue eyes;
a whisper tells you to,

shakeitoffshakeitoff,
shake it off shakesnakerakemake fake it

a sea breeze
rustles the sheer drapes,
sighing like a ghost, then settling.

restless,
you stand up,
walk onto the deck into the brightness
of a Caribbean afternoon.

yes, he's there.
touch his arm.

touch his armtouchhisarmtouchhisarmtouchhis...

he is real

and so are you.